Madness Rules - 04

by Arthur Bradley

  Flashes of light came from high above him as more bullets pounded the area of the stage where his flashlight rolled around. Someone was shooting from the rafters, and the gunfire was distinctive, an Aug A3. Joe had not only gotten free, he had retrieved Mason’s rifle.

  “Crap,” he mumbled, pulling Bowie closer. “This one’s on me.”

  Mason peeked over the top of the wall. The distance to Joe was probably between fifty and a hundred yards. With a rifle, the shot wouldn’t have been difficult, even with the man having some cover behind the metal girders. But using a pistol to hit a target that far away in the dark required plenty of ammunition or a laser sight.

  An idea came to him. While it wasn’t the ideal weapon, the Redhawk’s six-inch barrel and fiber optic sights were fairly well suited to the task. It didn’t hurt that the 454-Casull round could punch through a refrigerator.

  He slid the Redhawk from the holster. The gun was too heavy to hold still, so he rested the six-inch barrel on the edge of the orchestra pit wall and pointed it in the direction where he had last seen the muzzle flashes.

  The rafters were dark and quiet for the moment. Joe was obviously waiting for a target. Mason picked up one of the music stands and tossed it like a javelin onto to the stage behind him.

  Joe immediately let loose with a long burst of gunfire, chewing up the edge of the stage.

  Mason lined up the Redhawk and squeezed the trigger. The trigger pull was much longer and harder than his Supergrade, and he struggled to keep the fiber optic bead perfectly in line with the flashes.

  Boom!

  The gun went off, jerking violently upward as it hurled a 300-grain hollow-point slug toward Joe. He brought it back down and fired again. And again. And again. Only when the gun clicked over onto spent rounds did he finally duck back behind the wall.

  The room was quiet except for a rhythmic squeaking that sounded like someone rocking in a creaky recliner. Mason planned to wait a full five minutes before moving, but within a few seconds, Connie stepped out onto the stage, waving her flashlight in his direction.

  “Marshal, you okay?”

  He started to shout for her to get down but realized there was no point. If Joe had been able to shoot, Connie would already be dead.

  “What is it?” she whispered, leaning over the pit to talk to him.

  He shook his head. “Toss me my flashlight, will you?”

  She walked over and retrieved it for him.

  “Who was shooting?”

  Mason clicked on his flashlight and aimed it up toward the grid of metal rafters in the ceiling. Joe Ward dangled from a long electrical cord, his body hanging head down, swinging back and forth through the air like a clock that couldn’t quite keep time. Blood pooled at the top of his scalp, dripping down onto an invisible audience below.

  “My God! Is that Joe?” Her voice was a mix of horror and hope as she turned her flashlight beam on him.

  “One of his boys must have helped him to get free.”

  Mason scanned the floor for the Aug. It was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was still in the rafters. More likely, it was buried somewhere in the huge ocean of seats. He took a moment to reload the Redhawk before shoving the weapon back into its holster.

  Connie bent over and extended a hand out to him.

  Mason stared at her, a muddy mix of feelings swirling through his head.

  She offered a small smile.

  “It’s over, Marshal. No reason we can’t be friends.”

  As much as he wanted to disagree, she was right. He sighed and reached up to take her hand.

  “I’m sorry if I caused you some trouble,” she said, helping him back onto the stage.

  He nodded. What was left to say? Whether or not he agreed with her methods, she’d had her revenge. The matter was closed.

  “What do you say we get out of here?” he said, swinging the flashlight beam over to the stairs.

  Bowie offered a short woof from the pit below, staring up at them.

  “Yeah,” he said, “you too.”

  Four hours later, Connie and Mason stood in front of her small farmhouse in Prestonsburg. He hadn’t felt right leaving her in Ashland, or even Ironville for that matter. Her little family farm was isolated and safe, and that was about as much as anyone could really ask for at the moment.

  She leaned in and gave him a warm hug, pressing her breasts firmly against his chest.

  “I know you’re upset with me,” she said, staring up into his eyes.

  “You did what you felt was right, and nothing I say or do is going to change that.”

  “I couldn’t let it go. Not for you or anyone.”

  “I get that,” he said, thinking of his own personal quest for justice.

  “Now, I’m free though. It’s like a weight is off my shoulders.”

  He nodded. “I get that too.”

  “Someday, when you find it in your heart, I hope you’ll come by and see me.” She looked out at the farm behind her. “Like I said before, it’s going to take more than just me to make a go of it here.”

  He smiled and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

  “Maybe, but I do hope to see you again, Marshal.” Bowie raced from around the corner of her house, chasing a squirrel. He had no chance of catching it, but it was the chase that mattered. “Bowie too,” she said, laughing.

  Mason couldn’t quite reconcile his feelings for Connie. She was beautiful, loving, and full of life. Those things were all important. But she had also shown herself capable of an almost sociopathic detachment. And that was something that went to the core of any relationship—trust.

  Despite her shortcomings, though, as he looked at her lightly freckled face and bright green eyes, he felt more fondness than concern. They had traveled on a journey together and come out to see the other side.

  “I’m sure we’ll cross paths again,” he said. “Besides, if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

  “Are you going on to Lexington?”

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  “For your justice,” she said, not hiding the fact that she considered their pursuits to be roughly equivalent.

  “To get answers.”

  She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips, long and slow. It didn’t take long for him to feel the heat of lust begin to warm his belly. When Connie finally pulled away, she reached down and grabbed his hand.

  “Before you go,” she said, glancing back at the house, “do you think we can find a way to make amends?”

  There was a look in Connie’s eyes that told Mason this was more than a simple offer of makeup sex. This was about defining their relationship going forward, perhaps even their memory of one another.

  He cupped her cheek with his hand but said nothing.

  “Maybe another time,” she said, not hiding her disappointment.

  He smiled and gave her one final kiss goodbye.

  CHAPTER

  17

  “We’ll have to go on foot from here,” Tanner said, staring out across the Arlington Memorial Bridge.

  The bridge was six lanes across, lined with lampposts and ten-foot-wide sidewalks, and packed from edge to edge with hundreds of cars, trucks, buses, and tractor-trailers. About midway across, a dump truck had smashed through the stone railing and was teetering on the edge of the bridge. A good gust of wind was all that would be needed to send it crashing down into the Potomac.

  “Look at the way the cars are facing.”

  She studied the traffic. “They’re all coming out of the city.”

  “And what does that tell you?”

  “That it must have been pretty bad.”

  He nodded. “We’ll need to hurry if we want to get out before dark. And believe me, we want to get out before dark.” Tanner hoisted his backpack over his shoulder and started walking across the bridge.

 
“Right,” she said, grabbing her own gear and hustling to catch up to him.

  The bridge was nearly a half-mile long, but they made good time, crossing it in about fifteen minutes. When they got to the far side, they stopped to study an enormous bronze statue sitting on a stone pedestal. It depicted a naked warrior riding a warhorse. Beside him walked a nude woman carrying a shield, also equally buff and set on battle.

  “You know,” she said, looking up at the statue, “he sort of looks like you. If you lost a little weight, I mean.”

  “And I suppose you’re the beautiful warrior goddess walking beside him?” Tanner said with a grin.

  “Of course not.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “I don’t have my boobs yet,” she said, looking down at her chest.

  Tanner raised both hands, completely exasperated.

  “Are you trying to freak me out?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He turned and studied the street. He would rather face a hundred bloodthirsty banshees than have a conversation with a twelve-year-old about her missing breasts.

  “Please,” he said, “let’s just move on.” He pointed toward the back of the Lincoln Memorial, which was only a few hundred yards away. “The shortest way is to follow the National Mall and then cut up 15th Street to get to the White House. Sound good?”

  She shrugged. “If that’s what you think is best.” She raised her hand to her eyes and stared off in the distance. “How far is it?”

  “I thought you lived here.”

  “I did, but I never really got to go out and see the city. Being the President’s daughter isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Did I ever tell you that people used to guard me when I took a bath?”

  “That sounds weird.”

  She nodded. “Believe me, it was. Sometimes I would float face down on the water just to see whether anyone would think I was dead.”

  “And did they?”

  “No, but I think it’s because I couldn’t hold my breath long enough.”

  “Come on,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s only a couple of miles, but I doubt it’ll be easy going.”

  They started across the grassy field behind the Lincoln Memorial. The huge Doric temple stood before them, surrounded on all sides by tall white marble columns.

  “Do you ever feel like we’re archaeologists?”

  He looked at her and wrinkled his brow.

  “What?”

  She stared up at the huge structure in front of them.

  “You have to admit it feels like we’re approaching the ruins of Atlanta or some other lost civilization.”

  “Atlanta is a lost civilization?”

  “Sure, it was buried under the sea like a million years ago.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  As crazy as it sounded, Tanner thought that she might be right—not about Atlanta, of course, but about them being explorers of a lost world. Modern civilization had been destroyed, and he wasn’t at all sure that it was going to recover. In a few hundred years, the historical monuments might well be overgrown and crumbling in on themselves, no different than those of ancient Rome.

  They climbed onto the raised platform surrounding the Lincoln Memorial and made their way around front. As they neared the entrance, they heard voices coming from inside.

  Tanner raised his finger to his lips.

  Samantha nodded and slid the rifle off her shoulder.

  Together, they crept to the edge of the doorway and peered in. Two men were directly in front of Lincoln’s statue. One sat lighting a cigarette, and the other had his pants down as he urinated at the foot of the monument. The first man had a machete propped beside him; the second, a sniper rifle leaning against the statue. The monument itself, once having epitomized the leader’s strength and compassion, was now covered with graffiti and splashes of paint.

  Tanner stepped around and raised his shotgun.

  “Hands!” he shouted.

  Both men froze and slowly raised their hands. The man who was peeing left his pants hanging down by his knees.

  “Zip up and turn around,” ordered Tanner.

  He pulled his pants up and slowly turned.

  Tanner took a moment to look them over. Both were probably in their early thirties. The man with the cigarette wore jeans and a ripped t-shirt, and had a small mustache that any respectable man would have shaved off. The other man was stocky and bald, and had a web of tattoos going up his neck. Tanner would have bet money that both were convicts.

  “Hey, brother,” said the first man, “no need for the hostility.”

  Samantha stepped out from behind one of the pillars, and both men’s eyes were drawn to her like a magnet.

  “Lookie what we have here,” said the bald man.

  Uncomfortable with his stare, Samantha looked down at the floor.

  “I’m going to ask you both a couple of questions,” said Tanner, “and I expect honest answers.”

  The two men looked at one another, as if trying to decide which story to tell.

  “If you lie to me, I’ll kneecap you for the disrespect you’ve shown our twenty-third president.”

  “Sixteenth,” corrected Samantha.

  “What?”

  “Lincoln was the sixteenth president.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded. “Pretty sure.”

  Tanner turned back to the men.

  “Whatever. The point is you’d better give it to me straight.”

  The man with the cigarette took a drag and then tossed it away.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with what you’re doing here.”

  “We’re doing what everyone’s doing—trying to keep our bellies full.”

  “As well our other needs met,” his partner said, his eyes drifting back toward Samantha.

  Seeing Tanner’s hands tighten on the shotgun, the first man quickly cut back in.

  “I’m Lars and he’s Yo-Yo.”

  “Yo-Yo?” said Samantha. “Like the toy?”

  The bald man smiled at her.

  “It’s just a nickname, baby doll. I bet you got a nickname too.”

  “What about you folks?” asked Lars. “Where you headed?”

  “We’re going over to the White—” she started.

  Tanner cut his eyes at her, and she fell silent.

  “Where’s the rest of your gang?” he asked.

  “Gang? No, brother, you got it all wrong. It’s just the two of us.”

  He lowered the shotgun’s point of aim to the man’s knees.

  “Hey, hey!” Lars said, dancing around. “Don’t be like that. All right, you got me. We may have a few friends in the vicinity, but it’s not like we’re a gang of criminals or nothing.”

  “Right, I’m sure you’re just a couple of choir boys out distributing bibles.”

  “Well…”

  “Kick over the rifle and machete.”

  Lars reluctantly did as instructed.

  “You can’t leave us without no way to defend ourselves,” said Yo-Yo. “It’s dangerous around here, especially after dark.”

  “You mean without a way to defend ourselves,” corrected Samantha.

  “What?”

  “Without no way would mean that you have a way, which of course you don’t.”

  Yo-Yo turned back to Tanner with a confused look on his face.

  “What’s she talking about?”

  “It’s a unique form of torture that only she has mastered.” He leaned down and slung the machete out into the grass. “Sam, unload the rifle.”

  She hurried over and picked it up. The weapon took her a moment to figure out, but she finally found the magazine release. After tossing the magazine over to Tanner, she pulled the slide back and ejected the round from the chamber. It clattered away into the corner.

  “Do you want me to get that one?”
she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She set the rifle down and scoured the floor until she found the missing round.